Inner Revolution
by Rockcrab
Summary: Ivan has been second guessing his decisions lately, wondering if it was the right thing- no matter how fun it was to torture other countries. How does he deal with it? Simple- beat himself into submission. Who wins the battle, Ivan or his mind? ONESHOT.


**Disclaimer- I do not own Axis Powers- Hetalia.**

**Author's Note- Read and review- please and thank you.**

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There was a blizzard outside today and Ivan was starring out the window of his house watching the harsh storm through the nearly white window; usual smile non-existent. Maybe a few feet of snow today would be brought by the blizzard in the past few hours...

Outside the window, through the storm it was barren, frozen, cold, and white. Just about everything was white and frozen over. In Ivan's opinion, the popular phrase- "When Hell freezes over." -is inappropriate, or just plain inaccurate, for where he lived was just about as frozen over as it could get.

Starring blankly out the window, Ivan's thoughts were rather empty. He didn't feel quite malicious today, but no one would ever know that. It seemed to happen to him one or two times a week... the empty feeling followed by a routine way of getting rid of emotional turmoil. Already this week, Ivan had felt and gotten over this feeling twice. The snowstorm got to him and made this the third time... it was a bad week.

Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia did not know what Ivan did on these days, but they figured he was torturing someone, and, as long as it wasn't them, they were relieved for the day from Ivan's icy clutches of doom. They knew not to bother him when he told them not to- there would be consequences.

It had never once crossed their minds that Ivan may be torturing _himself_. It had never crossed anyone's minds that it was possible for _Ivan _to feel bad for what he did. He punished those who got out of line and he punished himself as well- and he was none too kind about it.

_How can I make others become one with me if I cannot quite get to be one with myself? _the hulking Russian often wondered on these down days. How he felt about hurting people, how he was as a person was sometimes argued in his mind.

_Torturing them into submission is easy, fun... but... a house with no soul is hardly a house... but the people are unhappy which makes me happy~! But... what I do to them... but... _And the self-contained argument now raged on in the Russian's mind. It bugged him, and his brain nearly begged the thoughts to stop. Forced to obey the brain, Ivan turned to physical pain to focus on until the rather treasonous thoughts departed and he could settle down.

He stood up and undid his scarf, putting it carefully on a chair. He loved the white scarf; it was probably his best childhood- or anytime -friend... and it would be awful to get even a speck of blood stained on it. He had reached into his inside coat pocket to retrieve several items, which he laid out on the table. Among these item's were a medium sized, jagged edged knife, a washcloth, a towel, a shot glass, and four bottles of vodka.

He had never taken a shot glass with him before, nor had he ever taken vodka, but he'd decided the last few times he'd done this he was in enough pain to almost not be able to get his coat back on, and he could let no one know he did this, lest they may insist that he is insane or, even worse, pity him and therefore the coat had to go back on... and if a few shots were all it took to dull the pain enough then that's what he would do- after he started of course. He was sure the vodka would make the pain worse and at the end, more tolerable.

Having gotten everything out of his pockets where they were hidden, Ivan took off the coat, his shirt, and his pants; throwing them with his scarf on the chair (though not with as much care- this he did hastily as he was a bit eager to start so his mind would calm down a bit). The chair he moved into the closet, in case it got messy he didn't want his clothes to give everything away. Ivan was left in his underwear, which he kept on.

Ivan shivered due to the cold air touching his unprotected skin. He didn't heat his house all that well, and so it was probably 30 degrees warmer inside than out, and outside it was reaching negative 25 degrees celsius (negative 13 degrees fahrenheit). Therefore the air biting his skin was 5 degrees celsius (41 degrees fahrenheit). Clenching his teeth, he got used to the cold air in a matter of minutes, he'd done this before.

Taking hold of the knife, Ivan held the cold blade's jagged end against his already scarred chest. Yes, he had scars, he was not an easy torturer and this went for himself as well. Some wounds never heal- he now had physical to match the emotional. Looking him over, the reader would notice the numerous scars Ivan has already obtained nearly everywhere on his body except his neck, a bit of his back, his head/face, his wrists, and his hands due to the fact that those could be seen by the general public and, when torturing someone in a more violent way, he had to take off his coat and precious scarf- despite the coat being off, his shirt and pants dutifully covered all of his self-inflicted injuries.

Closing his eyes Ivan drew a thin line across his chest and down to his hip, effectively re-opening some wounds from just two days before- which had been reopened then too, from just a day before that. One line from his left shoulder to his right hip, which looked less like a thin line and more like a line a half-inch thick in spots and thin in others, with each of the older cuts along the way re-opening. Blood trickled down his chest a little bit, but nothing major.

His eyes twinkled slightly, though not with tears... he was enjoying it. It was the same twinkle he had when he was being a sadist. He had gotten a bit used to the burning sting of the knife, and he had rather started to like it now. He repreated the motion from before with the knife, this time holding the knife with his left hand, and cutting from his right shoulder down to his left hip so the cuts would criss-cross in an X shape, except trickling a bit with his thick (due to the cold weather of his region), crimson blood. Even to this he did not yet cringe. He shook his head slightly. Ivan would not stop until a little while after he was begging _himself_ for mercy and therefore, it may take some time. This time- he was determind.

Carefully, he ran the knife across his back horizontally multiple times. Too many times for him to count through the slightly blinding pain. He clenched his teeth. Pain is fun until it becomes a bit more than he can handle.

Ivan frowned. He wasn't supposed to feel too much pain yet, he hadn't even gotten to the Vodka... and he was interested in what it's effects might be. It sure seemed to hurt his victims... cutting across his chest twice, each time a bit deeper than the first, Ivan sat down and carved up his legs enough that it hurt to move, but not enough to make him unable to walk. These cuts criss-crossed and ran horizontally, vertically and diagonally- whatever he could manage he did. He'd done this a few times now, and he knew how much was too much for his cover and how much was too little for himself.

Cutting up his arms, being careful not to cut vertically in which case he would likely bleed to death, Ivan stopped, still sitting where he had started standing just 22 minutes before.

Sitting in a puddle of blood on his hardwood floor, Ivan dropped the bloodied knife, panting. The knife clanged and slid a few feet before coming to a stop. Ivan cringed as stood, and, admittavely, he was unsure whether or not he was looking forward to the vodka. With each step, Ivan cringed, slowly making his way to the table.

Eyeing the towel, Ivan debated stopping now, stopping the bleeding, putting his clothes back on, and attending the Allied Powers meeting on time instead of late as he assumed he would not if he continued. Some of the bleeding had already slowed, the first few cuts starting to dry. In a moment of self hatred for being treasonous to what was so obviously _good _for him, he grabbed a vodka bottle, opened it by smashing the top against the table, broken glass adding to the mixture of a tear or two, blood, and sweat that lay in a puddle on the floor.

Thinking ahead, Ivan shakily poured himself a shot in his glass, an amount equivalent to a second glass of which was spilled on the table. Leaving the glass on the table, Ivan went as if to drink from the bottle, instead dumping the contents on his badly cut chest, which trickled down his badly mutilated legs. He placed a hand on the table to stay standing and repeated the action of opening another bottle of vodka by breaking it, and dumping the contents on himself, this time on his back which again trickled down his legs.

Ivan felt like he had caught on fire, and his body was shaking. He fought losing consiousness due to the pain, falling unconsious would mean it was over and the pain would stop- and then someone might find him.

Shakily taking the shot he poured ealier, Ivan shuddered, but took the third bottle, smashed it open spilling a fourth of it's contents and glass sprayed the floor, his feet and his shins. Clumsiness was due to the extreme pain, but he poured another shot, took it, poured another and cringed. He dropped the third bottle to the floor by accident, his grip faltering, glass shattering and the contents spilling. The puddle was now an unsightly sight of glass shards, blood, sweat, all mixed together with a rather large amount of vodka. Ivan had tears in his eyes. Maybe using the vodka wasn't such a great idea.

Taking hold of the fourth bottle firmly to put it away, rethinking what he had done, Ivan stumbled and fell over, the bottle breaking under him and glass sticking into his side; vodka splashing over his legs and stomache and spraying his chest and face.

The pain was unimaginable and the Russian had succeded in what he had desired to do: Make himself beg for mercy and then continue until he would be too frightened of_ his_ _own actions _to think of any thought he may have had against himself doing as he had been doing for the past years. The man had frightened himself into submission and shut is eyes tightly, having gotten some vodka in them during the fall; they were stinging.

Tearing up, Ivan kept himself from crying the best he could, and forced himself onto his feet, his vision clouded with black pain and the blurriness of the vodka in them. He fell into a chair and weakly took the last shot of vodka.

Once the third shot hit him, he felt a little bit better, the pain so much so that it dulled to a throbbing all over his body, and he shut his eyes, the vodka stinging, him unable to open them.

Despite the blizzard, Ivan punched a hole through the window, tottering and blind. He took some of the snow, held it until it melted and forced himself to get it into his eyes- it was freezing and not comfortable, but it cleared some of the vodka, his eyes were red, but he could see. Sitting in the chair, Ivan took an hour getting all the glass out of his feet and legs, his hip, and his right hand (from punching through the window and holding the glass bottle he crushed).

By then, the cuts had mostly dried and the room was slightly below freezing due to the now broken window, Ivan still mostly unclothed. Grabbing the towel, Ivan walked around the glass and wrapped himself in it, breathing sharply and muttering utter nonsense to reassure himself that he'd be ok.

Taking his clothes out of the closet, he walked to the bathroom where he took a shower, got dressed, and realized he had missed the meeting. Upon later questioning by America, Ivan stated there had been a blizzard and that he only could have made it was "when hell had frozen over." Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania backed up the statement and Russia got away with it without further questioning.

He cleaned the room himself, so no one would find out.

Upon entering the room again, a week after cleaning it not needing it again, Ivan found himself smirking.

He had nearly killed himself, but he now had no doubts on his goals- there were no second guessing or indifferent thoughts in Russia's mind.

Finally, he had become one... with _himself_.

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**Author's Note- I hope you like it! I spent 4-5 hours writing it tonight, no sleep for me! Not sure what inspired it and it's probably now great because I was only slightly depressed when I started it... and it went away half way through... but... *shrug* ...whatever...**

**And yes, this is reffering to the fact that in the USSR, Stalin had definately killed 10-20 million plus Russians under his rule, talk about frightening yourself into submission... that's what I base this off of. *nod***

**Read and Review, this is _MEANT _to be a one shot. 30th Fanfiction! Happy Birthday!**


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